60

O’Leary guided Tasha into a seat in the back booth of the Claddagh Pub. After the waitress had dropped off menus and took their drink order, Tasha said, “This is nice place. Do you own it?”

“Until yesterday I did—now I’m a partner.”

Their drinks came, and O’Leary said, “Tasha, I’m leaving Boston.”

Her smile dropped.

“I’m heading down to Florida. I bought a place on the gulf coast south of Fort Meyers.”

“When will you leave?”

“I’ll be around for a while yet. I want to get you and the others settled in someplace where you’ll be safe from assholes like the late Carl Konovalov and his people.”

“You shouldn’t worry about us. We’ll get along alright.”

The waitress returned, and they ordered meals. Once they were alone again, O’Leary said, “I was thinking about taking Inca. I’ll enroll her in school . . . I’ve never had a child of my own.”

Tasha sipped her drink. “What do you know about raising a girl on the verge of womanhood?”

“Not a lot, that’s certain.”

“Then I better come with you.”

O’Leary’s acne-scarred face broke into a jagged smile. “Christ, I thought you’d never offer.”

Winter suddenly appeared beside their table with a bottle of champagne wrapped in a towel. “Compliments of the new management,” he announced as the waitress placed two long-stemmed glasses on the table. Winter began to pour. “So are we pouring a farewell drink or toasting a budding relationship?”

_________________

The Samovar Restaurant was empty, an uncommon occurrence for a Friday. However, the ownership was not concerned. The entire restaurant had been reserved for a meeting between Zinovy Istomin, Athanasius Aliyev, Vyacheslav Evseyev, and Yaropolk Kryukov—the recently deceased Carl Konovalov’s brigadiers. The men—similar to caporegimes in the Italian mob—each were in charge of one of the organization’s businesses.

Once all were in attendance and bottles of chilled Stolichnaya had been opened, they got down to the matter at hand. Since all were Russian speakers, the meeting was conducted in their native tongue. “What,” Istomin asked, “is to be done about this O’Leary?”

“I am taking care of that,” Evseyev answered. “He will not be a problem much longer.”

Istomin gave Aliyev a quick look. Evseyev’s way of dealing with matters was well known. He was reputed to have killed so many people in Russia that the krysha there had shipped him to New York. The Brighton Beach krysha had in turn sent him to Boston. “Vyacheslav,” Istomin said, “we cannot have a blood bath in the streets. This O’Leary has information that if it becomes known could ruin any number of our benefactors.”

“Da, I understand. Nevertheless, I also understand that if we allow the killing of our pakhan to go unpunished, we will lose a great deal of influence.”

There was general consent that he was correct. They seemed willing to allow him a free rein when he said, “Trust me, I will not jeopardize our business.”

“Now,” Istomin said, “what is to be done about the . . . product we lost on the Cape?”

“Nothing,” said Aliyev. “We look at it as a loss. The leverage O’Leary has on our benefactors is dependent upon us leaving those whores alone.”

“I believe,” Evseyev said, “that brings us to the most pressing issue before us: who is to be pakhan?”

The conversation dropped to an uneasy silence. The assembled brigadiers wondered who Evseyev would try to kill first.